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08/29/2013

Grow Tall

I watched him make circles with his toe on the wooden floor.
His eyes, two helium balloons attached to her instruction. I stood in front of
the tinted window, rocking my purse in my arms.

And he lunged and punched the air with his bent fist, his
small legs making chairs on the floor.

His head tilted up and I could see it. The way doubt can
wash confidence from a face, leaving eyes soaked in confusion. And his feet
were running toward me before I even had a chance to wish it away.

His arms wrapped around my neck, words whispered from
somewhere under a trembling voice.

I just don’t like
karate.

His shaky voice. The gate to somewhere else.

So we drove to my parent’s farm, where his feet could find a
kind of solid ground. Where his voice sings under a chorus of slow moving trees,
humming through a blanket of deep August humidity.

And I found the beds inside my mother’s garden. The strings
between timber, the vines wrapped inside wire. The
berries held a deep crimson under their bellies, the gentle cry of a ripened
heart, ready for harvest.

And I listened as he jumped on the aging
trampoline, the steady bounce of recognition, his confidence finding him in the
air between sky and black canvas.

And
I wondered how many times I have been here. Caught between the blurry eyes of
vulnerability and the running feet of fear. There are all of these moments when
the simple act of beginning feels like the face of uncertainty staring back
through a cracked mirror. Sometimes I need to be reminded. Sometimes I have to
hold the face of a flower to see its beautiful end.

There are the places we hide, the places we go when the fear of being small becomes too big. When
the ache summons the black dirt march back in time to the mighty womb, the
healing salve over embedded thorns still waiting to be pulled. The small
voice in slumber, awakened.

And this hiding place cradles each dent, each bruise and tear.

Because sometimes we grow in the shadows, in the dust of fear and doubt. But our leaves, they keep stretching, pressing past the gray light into the yellow orb of grace.

Doubt
thirsts for assurance, the firm hand of forever’s and for sure’s.

Growth,
she lingers in the maybe, in the carefree whirl of flaws made beautiful. And
this growth, never rushed, cracked veins falling when ready, leaving the
imprint of memory, fear torn from the vine.

Grow
tall, small heart.

Grow tall through the weeds, through the spider web holds.
Through the ravaged leaf loss and the sunken fruit spills. Each reach
releasing, each vine unraveling into this amber, fall shedding.

Because
this doubt, it doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It means you’re alive.
Spiraling past the button hole loops of a life well thread, stitching the seams
back together, climbing over each broken stem, reaching for the light.

It
means you’re growing.

And
this sun, she’ll take you. She’ll make you her own.

There
is no place to hide in her light, in the split ray love of a blooming heart.

Grow.

And
sometimes doubt is all we know, so we grow crooked, searching for light between
fallen branches. But beauty, she grows in this crooked undergrowth of flaws and
bendable mistakes.

The
seasons will cast their eyes to the sky, watching for the rain, the snow, the
storm building gusts of change. The gentle hand push of growth, old stalks
releasing each fear to the wind.

And
I say this, small heart, because maybe I need it more than you. These
words a circle, a halo’s wet glow, to hold us together when the sky is falling.

Grow.

Grow
past the rain soaked puddles, the tears nourishing each stem. Let your small
chutes explore past the knots, the open beak bird exploration. Grow through the
clouds, through the thunder and strike. Wrap yourself in a feathered bloom.

These
shaken stars. I’m still holding on.

And
when the doubt comes, push through the dirt anyway, past the broken leaves and
wobbly stems. Wait for the rain’s refresh, the muddy ground clearing, blooms
soaked in chartreuse change.

I
can’t give you for sure’s. But this open hand collecting, inviting you to a
second harvest life. These chances are yours to take. To clutch close to a
shaken voice.

Because
sometimes we just need a hand to reach in and pull us from the ground, from the
mud soaked soil, to remind us of what we are becoming, the part of us still
growing.

You
are courage in full bloom.

There
are pastures wild, deep riverbed flowers growing from the deep canopy of
freedom, reaching from places our eyes may never see. Your roots, stretching
out past this hiding place, past the fertilized soil of forever’s, the watering
can of safety.

Grow.

And
I could hear his small voice, carried on the back of the wind, caught between the squeak of the trampoline.

Comments

I watched him make circles with his toe on the wooden floor.
His eyes, two helium balloons attached to her instruction. I stood in front of
the tinted window, rocking my purse in my arms.

And he lunged and punched the air with his bent fist, his
small legs making chairs on the floor.

His head tilted up and I could see it. The way doubt can
wash confidence from a face, leaving eyes soaked in confusion. And his feet
were running toward me before I even had a chance to wish it away.

His arms wrapped around my neck, words whispered from
somewhere under a trembling voice.

I just don’t like
karate.

His shaky voice. The gate to somewhere else.

So we drove to my parent’s farm, where his feet could find a
kind of solid ground. Where his voice sings under a chorus of slow moving trees,
humming through a blanket of deep August humidity.

And I found the beds inside my mother’s garden. The strings
between timber, the vines wrapped inside wire. The
berries held a deep crimson under their bellies, the gentle cry of a ripened
heart, ready for harvest.

And I listened as he jumped on the aging
trampoline, the steady bounce of recognition, his confidence finding him in the
air between sky and black canvas.

And
I wondered how many times I have been here. Caught between the blurry eyes of
vulnerability and the running feet of fear. There are all of these moments when
the simple act of beginning feels like the face of uncertainty staring back
through a cracked mirror. Sometimes I need to be reminded. Sometimes I have to
hold the face of a flower to see its beautiful end.

There are the places we hide, the places we go when the fear of being small becomes too big. When
the ache summons the black dirt march back in time to the mighty womb, the
healing salve over embedded thorns still waiting to be pulled. The small
voice in slumber, awakened.

And this hiding place cradles each dent, each bruise and tear.

Because sometimes we grow in the shadows, in the dust of fear and doubt. But our leaves, they keep stretching, pressing past the gray light into the yellow orb of grace.

Doubt
thirsts for assurance, the firm hand of forever’s and for sure’s.

Growth,
she lingers in the maybe, in the carefree whirl of flaws made beautiful. And
this growth, never rushed, cracked veins falling when ready, leaving the
imprint of memory, fear torn from the vine.

Grow
tall, small heart.

Grow tall through the weeds, through the spider web holds.
Through the ravaged leaf loss and the sunken fruit spills. Each reach
releasing, each vine unraveling into this amber, fall shedding.

Because
this doubt, it doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It means you’re alive.
Spiraling past the button hole loops of a life well thread, stitching the seams
back together, climbing over each broken stem, reaching for the light.

It
means you’re growing.

And
this sun, she’ll take you. She’ll make you her own.

There
is no place to hide in her light, in the split ray love of a blooming heart.

Grow.

And
sometimes doubt is all we know, so we grow crooked, searching for light between
fallen branches. But beauty, she grows in this crooked undergrowth of flaws and
bendable mistakes.

The
seasons will cast their eyes to the sky, watching for the rain, the snow, the
storm building gusts of change. The gentle hand push of growth, old stalks
releasing each fear to the wind.

And
I say this, small heart, because maybe I need it more than you. These
words a circle, a halo’s wet glow, to hold us together when the sky is falling.

Grow.

Grow
past the rain soaked puddles, the tears nourishing each stem. Let your small
chutes explore past the knots, the open beak bird exploration. Grow through the
clouds, through the thunder and strike. Wrap yourself in a feathered bloom.

These
shaken stars. I’m still holding on.

And
when the doubt comes, push through the dirt anyway, past the broken leaves and
wobbly stems. Wait for the rain’s refresh, the muddy ground clearing, blooms
soaked in chartreuse change.

I
can’t give you for sure’s. But this open hand collecting, inviting you to a
second harvest life. These chances are yours to take. To clutch close to a
shaken voice.

Because
sometimes we just need a hand to reach in and pull us from the ground, from the
mud soaked soil, to remind us of what we are becoming, the part of us still
growing.

You
are courage in full bloom.

There
are pastures wild, deep riverbed flowers growing from the deep canopy of
freedom, reaching from places our eyes may never see. Your roots, stretching
out past this hiding place, past the fertilized soil of forever’s, the watering
can of safety.

Grow.

And
I could hear his small voice, carried on the back of the wind, caught between the squeak of the trampoline.